Don Pendleton - Civil War II (26 page)

I applaud the Negro because ... at a moment when he has the power and the ability, for the first time, to fully avenge the unspeakable crimes committed against his race for centuries, he has exercised a humane restraint and a love of country that is difficult for me, a comfortable American, to understand. He came out of those towns and he lashed out in a brief—believe me, a very brief—destructive trumpet-blast of freedom found. But he has not run amuck. Blood does not flow in rivers through the streets of America. The Negro has withdrawn that big fist. He came out, he bade us look at him, and now he stands back, waiting to see what we intend to do about it.

Make no mistake, however, that black fist is still cocked. It could lash out again, either in blind reflexive action or in cool calculation. Whatever the mode, the results for the white American and for the nation as a whole can be nothing but destruction, disaster and genocide.

This is my primary message to the people of the United States. Think. Act rationally. Consider the state of the nation, and conduct yourselves accordingly. Make no mistake ... this is no mere uprising or momentary flare-up. What has happened in this country today is a military operation of the highest calibre, the fruits of painstaking

years of planning and preparation. The Negro controls the military might of this nation today, he controls us.

I stated earlier that my own personal involvements were of no consequence to our present situation. But I want to be entirely honest, and I want every citizen of this nation to know precisely where my sympathies lie. I am not sure, you see, that I would erase the events of the past twenty-four hours even if I had the power to do so. I feel that what has happened has served as an awakening from some hallucinogenic dream or illusion. I have no desire to return to that dream. The air is clean and crisp out here in reality. There is a noticeable tugging at the soul and a vigorous recognition of the values of life ... out here in reality.

I am not a child, I am thirty-six years of age. I am not an idiot, my present station in life attests to that. I am not politically naive ... my survival through fourteen years of government service should verify that. Yet... in the most important issues of life itself I have habitually surrendered my thinking mind to the emotional braying of the jackasses among us. I have accepted—no, I have
welcomed,
the fanatic and his hatreds, the opportunist and his greed, the professional hater and his ruthlessness. I have wrapped these in a mantle about me and walked among you as a responsible citizen, as an average American, as a patriot And of these guises, only one is true. The one of average American. I have, you see, been like you. At this moment, I am only like myself. I intend to think for myself. I will not surrender that unique consciousness of mine to a dream of national narcosis.

The President has said that the present
quote
unrest
unquote
is foreign inspired. My reply to the President is that unrest is an American institution, or it was at one time. I would remind the President that these people who have risen up in our midst were not born into a slave consciousness. They were born with American minds, and they were educated in American ideals and philosophies.

Since when, Mr. President, does the home of the free and the land of the brave require an injection of foreign inspiration to produce a feeling of anger, frustration, and rebellion against tyranny and injustice? But this is the

saddest part of all, for it seems that this reaction can be felt only by those Americans who are themselves suffering the fruits of tyranny and injustice. Is the American Negro the only one who can lift his head and cry out against the things this nation has come to stand for? Is this true, America? Can we look at our brothers, and seeing that they are black,
forget
that they are
Americans?
Can we look at tyranny and degradation of the American ideal and, secure in the knowledge that it is not being directed against ourselves,
forget American principles?

A wise old man in Denver told me, not many hours ago, that character is an exercise of principle, and that an exercise of principle usually amounts to doing something we don't particularly want to do, or something that we will not personally profit from. Is the principle of freedom and equality still alive in the home of the free?

As tile black man searches his conscience for the right course of action in this, his moment of triumph, cannot the white man do likewise in this,
his
moment of
truth
? Let us each, white and black alike, paraphrase an early American patriot, and say: I may not like the color of your skin, American, but I shall defend to the death your right to wear it, in freedom and with pride.

CHAPTER 5 - THE CHANGING OF THE GUARD

President Arlington stared searchingly at the Chief of the White House Secret Service detail. "Are you telling me, Bill, that the people are doing nothing, absolutely nothing? They are simply sitting and waiting for the end to come?"

"It appears that way, Mr. President," the head bodyguard admitted. "But after the way they treated you on television last night, I guess it isn't too surprising. The nation has become accustomed to listening to Mr. Silverman. I guess most people are rather confused about the whole thing."

"Nonsense," the President said calmly. "They aren't confused. They are frightened. Frightened rabbits. They have deserted their President, they have deserted their country, and they are sitting around waiting for someone to deliver them from their difficulties once again.

"Well, it won't be me this time, Bill. I am too old for that task this time, I simply cannot handle it. How soon can you get me out erf here?"

"Any time you'd like to leave, sir. Where are we going?"

"I want to go to Streamhaven, Bill. Let the Negruhs have the damn country. Apparendy nobody cares but me, and now 1 don't care either. I simply do not care about a thing. But the Negruhs did
not
beat me, Bill.
Old age.
Old

age beat me. I have given this nation my very life. I will not give it my death as well."

"I'll contact the FPB and set up a convoy right away, sir."

"No, Bill, no convoy. Tell the boys over at the bureau to close up 6hop and get out of town. It's every man for himself, and I suppose the Negruhs have a list a mile long."

"I suppose so, sir."

"Do you realize, Bill? I am the first American President to be run out of his office."

"Yes sir," the bodyguard replied. "I guess that's true."

Arlington laughed. "Don't take it so hard, old friend. It's a distinction, of sorts. Hump Arlington, the last father of the country. Last in war, last in peace, and last in the hearts of his countrymen."

Abe Williams examined his protege critically and quietly told him, "You're looking frisky as a colt this morning, Michael."

Winston grinned and replied, "Shows what one good night's sleep can do for a guy."

"You mean you were actually able to sleep?"

"I mean I lay down, died, and was resurrected twelve hours later. Or that's the way it feels." He accepted a glass of juice from his host and added, "By the way, to whomever brought me the clothing, thanks."

"You can thank her yourself when you get to Washington."

"What?"

"A very anxious young lady came dragging in here in the middle of the night." Williams was smiling hugely. "From Connecticut, she said. And she left the clothing with love."

"Well I'll be damned," Winston commented.

"Yeah. Said you'd know where to find her, in Washington, when you got the time. I invited her to stay and travel with you this morning, but she seemed to think she'd be in the way. I wish I had someone like that dragging clothes around for
me"

"Yes, she's quite a woman," Winston said, smiling modestly. "You'll be seeing more of her."

"I want you to know how very pleased I am, Michael," Williams told him. "About the way things have shaped up, I mean. I am very happy that you are in our corner."

"I guess I am, too," Winston admitted. "And I guess I'm ready to travel. Is the General ready?"

"He is."

"Then I guess there's just one last item."

"What's that?" Williams asked.

"I want a letter of authority."

"From whom and over whom?"

"I'm going to be running this country for awhile. Right?"

"So right."

"In case I ever get into a stare-down with one of your people, I want to know who's boss."

"And you want a letter of authority?"

Winston nodded. "Or an equivalent instrument."

The black man sighed. "I can't give you anything like that, Michael. I've named you head of the provisional government. How much can I add to that?"

"You can add that my authority extends to all the occupational and/or insurgent forces. I'm going to need that, Abe. And you know it."

"I don't have that to give, Michael," Williams told him. "I've been running this black show by virtue of self-evident authority, and no more. It's nothing that has been given me, or accorded me, therefore it is not a power nor even an influence that I can pass along to someone else."

Winston gave an unhappy grunt and said, "Then my task may be all that more impossible. If I have no influence over the black—"

"You'll just have to exert influence, the same as I have done. Anyway, don't worry about the black support. You'll have that. Your big worries are with the white populace, don't you think?"

Winston frowned. "I guess you could be right. Well, okay. I'll play it by ear. How about my task force? Is it all set?"

The black leader soberly nodded his head. "All but the economist from UCLA. Unfortunately, he was killed

during the strike on Los Angeles yesterday. But I contacted the alternate, Dr. Mackay. He agreed to join you in Washington."

Winston's face had fallen over the news of the death. A muscle bunched in his jaw and he said, "Okay, that's fine." He glanced at his watch. "I guess it's time to be shoving off."

"Uh, there's one more thing, Michael. Concerning Ritter."

"What about Ritter?"

Williams seemed mildly embarrassed. "He, uh, felt terrible about that goof-up in Washington yesterday. When we lost Senator Bancroft and company. He, uh . . . I believe that he wishes to hover about your person. He wants to accompany you to Washington."

"It's fine with me," Winston declared soberly. "So long as he knows who's boss."

"You'll have no trouble from Norm Ritter," Williams assured him. He chuckled suddenly and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "Know what that big faker told me this morning?"

Winston grinned and shook his head.

"He told me he could almost pass as white, with that red hair, if I was worried about having a bunch of niggers around the White House."

The two men laughed together. Then Mike Winston took a last look around, as though perhaps he would never see the place again. History had been made at this unlikely place. Living history.
Vital
history. Williams noted the "last look" expression on Winston's face. Their glances crossed, and each other saw the other, for a fleeting instant, through the other's eyes. Then they went out, side by side—one white, one black—to step upon the stage of another chapter of America.

The helicopter settled gentiy to the White House lawn, in the center of a circle of black infantrymen. Norman Ritter was the first man out, leaping energetically to the ground before the ladder was emplaced, and he was engaged in an

animated conversation with the troop commander when Mike Winston and General Bogan de-planed. A special security guard, provided by Ritter, swept in to enclose them in a protective circle, then the thick knot of men set off rapidly for the main building. The infantry ranks split to let them pass, performing a ceremonial salute with their rifles, then regrouped into a wedge-shaped escort formation.

Ritter maneuvered alongside Winston and told him, "The troop commander says that Arlington bailed out a few hours ago, bag and baggage. They have your offices set up in the east wing, per your request. Silverman accepted the job as press secretary, and he's already selected a White House press corps. I understand he's pretty happy about that. Hasn't been an official press corps here since Arlington took office. He's got them assembled and waiting, requests that you step in and at least say hello to them right away. Thinks it's important."

Winston nodded his head mechanically. "I'd sooner not. But I agree with Silverman. It's probably very important to get off on the right foot with the press."

The military escort was left behind at the south portico. As the party moved up the steps, a tall dignified-appearing man ran down to greet them. He swung in beside Ritter, who performed perfunctory introductions. "Mike Winston, General Bogan, this is John Douglas, heads up the Washington intelligence unit. How's it going, John?"

"Very well," Douglas replied, panting a little. He was a graceful man with silvery hair who carried his Negro heritage proudly. "The entire White House staff volunteered to remain on—for awhile, anyway. I mean, the cooks and bottle washers, you know, the ..." He chuckled.